Akin
by A Ghost Who Walks
Summary: He was the runaway son of a vile monster, forever doomed to hatred and suspicion. She was an elven princess, daughter of a slain king, banished from her royal mother's presence because of her selflessness. When grey-eyed Destiny decrees that the paths of Murtagh and Arya cross, will they discover how truly alike they are?
1. Arya

**My first ever story, a really cruddy one-shot.**

Arya waited.

Soon _it _would begin again. It always did. There was no cease, no halt…nothing. Just pain, pain, endless crimson waves of never-ending pain. Pain that she could drown in.

But she would _never _give in. Her breoal had been dishonored enough with her capture. She could not, _would _not betray her people.

That was not the elven way. Elves were stoical; unemotional…they didn't let their feeling control them.

Then why had she come so near to insanity?

It was not just the pain. No, as great as it was, it was not just the pain.

_F__ä__olin. _Fäolin, whom she loved, who had loved _her_, was dead.

The first time she had ever seen a dead animal, she had screamed. She had stumbled upon a dead fawn in the woods. The stiff body, the blood-matted hide, but above all, the _look _of its eyes.

She'd had nightmare for weeks.

And Fäolin, _F__ä__olin_, had that same look, blank, empty, _lifeless. _

It had nearly driven her mad.

And now here she was, uncertainly waiting for her punishment.

But there were new minds.

An innocent, childlike mind, shot through with stabs of worry. She had sensed a flow of magic coming from him earlier, when her wounds had been healed.

A strange mind, one that seemed familiar, somehow, like a constant companion…no. it couldn't be…the egg? Had it hatched? The mind felt similar to the great gold dragon, Glaedr's.

Joy pulsed through her. She had not failed entirely; one might even say that she had completed her duty, in a roundabout fashion.

_A Rider. The world will change, and I helped bring it about._

And then…another mind. This too seemed familiar. Wary, cautious, with shields of iron. A fear of being controlled, with an air of rebellion ghosting through it. But what she sensed most was loyalty. The owner of the mind would remain loyal to the grave, if it could help it. Again, the feeling of familiarity surged through Arya.

Who could this be?

Then she realized it. This mind was shockingly like her own. Not exactly, but so very, very close. She gently brushed up against it.

The mind jerked away like it had been burned, suspicion emanating off it in waves. She got a vague impression of a question.

_By the fires below, who is that?_

Arya gave the mental equivalent of a smile. That would have been her answer, too.

Maybe…maybe these people weren't going to harm her.

Maybe.

But Arya never jumped into anything.

Arya waited.

**There y'all go. My first story. Review if you liked it. Review if you hated it. Flame is you feel sorry for a pyromaniac. And go to my account and vote on my poll on what I should do next. PLEASE! IT'S CALLING YOU!**


	2. Murtagh

**DISCLAIMER: You guys are seriously on something if you think that I'm C.P.**

Waiting for someone to choose his fate was not a new experience for Murtagh.

From birth to Uru'baen, his path had been decided for him. His days had followed a strict pattern of training and education. His companions were the sons of loyalists, chosen for their intellect and abilities. His tutors taught him about how the corrupt system of the Riders had been mercifully overthrown by the great Liberator, Galbatorix. Servants who had been selected by their fidelity to the King had whispered tales about the evil elves; awful monsters who ripped you apart and _sucked _your soul out, who murdered children and drank their blood by the dark light of a new moon, who had-the idea, my dear-_melded _their souls with the _essence _of the dragons, and worshiped a demon in the shape of a tree.

Yes, almost from birth, Murtagh's path had been chosen for him.

But that had changed when he had met Tornac.

Tornac.

He had met Tornac at the tender age of five. Or, rather, the decidedly _not _tender age of five. At the time, Murtagh had been smashing the nose of a prissy noble's son, who had had the audacity to call his mother a whore. Now, Murtagh would generally not fly into a temper so. He was a quiet, cautious boy, and he generally ignored the slurs people hurled his way.

But that was his mother.

Granted, Murtagh's feelings toward his mother were certainly confused enough; gods, the woman had left him, _deserted _him, leaving a child to the mercies of a monster. But she was his mother, and while _he _might harbor less-than-charitable thoughts toward her, he sure as Helgrind wasn't going to let some silk-wearing fop insult her.

So he did what most young boys would do in such a situation. He ignored his age (or lack thereof), the fact that the boy was nearly four years older than he and taller and stronger, and…

Sprang.

The other boy was, as I had mentioned earlier, a prissy noble's son. But even, no especially, nobles' sons were taught how to hold their own in a fight. The boy was older, taller, and stronger than Murtagh. He had all the apparent advantages.

But Murtagh was _righteously angry_.

As it was, it would have gone badly for the older boy indeed.

Until a hand grasped both warring parties' collars and picked them up out of the dirt.

The hand belonged to, as Murtagh would later learn, to Tornac, a revered weaponmaster of Uru'baen. At any other moment, Murtagh would have been quietly thrilled to meet such a great man. But at this present moment, he was positively belligerent. Victory had been in his grasp, and here the young dandy he had been attacking had been saved from his wrath by some meddling _grown-up_.

It was infuriating, and he let the interferer know so, quite vocally. It was very out of character for Murtagh, but when one's mother has just been insulted, one generally doesn't have such petty qualms about restraint.

He had thrashed wildly, spewing vile invectives that he had learned from the servants. After a moment of rather shocked silence, the man had ordered the other boy to the infirmary to have his nose healed. Then he had placed Murtagh down in front of him. Murtagh had eyed him sullenly, waiting for the customary scolding or looks of disgust and the inevitable, "Devil's Spawn.".

But it never came.

To Murtagh's shock and confusion, the man took him to his own personal healer to have his blackened eye and bloodied lip mended. He then gave him a hot supper, talking to him the whole while just like an adult.

Murtagh liked it. He had always been scorned and despised because of his lineage, and here was one who didn't seem to mind. He decided that he liked this man, who had introduced himself as Tornac, liked him a lot. Before he had left for his own quarters, Tornac had asked him if he trained with the sword. Murtagh had been surprised. How could he not be training with the sword? He was _five years old_, a _big boy_, and big boys knew how to swordfight. The man had shook his head slightly when Murtagh told him that, which Murtagh did not understand. Didn't all big boys learn how to fight? Wasn't that normal? He had asked that, too, but the man had only shook his head again and sent him back to his quarters.

The next day, he was waiting at the practice fields for Murtagh.

Murtagh's face had lit up when he had seen him, but then had turned confused as he looked around for his trainer. How was he supposed to become a warrior if he didn't train? Tornac had noted his puzzlement, saying that he was his new teacher. Murtagh drew the heavy practice sword tentatively, cautiously. This man might have seemed kind the day before, but would he be kind now, on the field?

Murtagh had been surprised twice that day.

The first, when he had tripped over his feet and sprawled on the ground. He had waited for the usual hard cuff, but Tornac hadn't hurt him. He had merely helped him to his feet and admonished him to be more careful.

The second, when he had reluctantly removed his tunic on account of the scorching sun. Instead of the exclamations of horror and pity he had come to expect-and hate- when people viewed his scar, Tornac had not reacted at all. This pleased Murtagh greatly, and he had begun to love the man dearly. That love had only deepened through the years…but had been abruptly cut short.

Murtagh had stormed into his rooms, torn between cursing and crying, furious at what he had ordered to do. _"Destroy Cantos…all traitors…burn them at the stake and bury their ashes with dung!" _Galbatorix had said, a far cry from his enticing words of before.

That was when Tornac had sprung his idea at Murtagh.

Escape Uru'baen…live the rest of his life in freedom.

It had seemed so simple, so foolproof.

But not fate-proof.

Wyrda, Murtagh thought, clearly had something against him.

Soldiers had been waiting at the gates, just as they arrived, flush with victory at the certitude of their escape. The soldier had struck, armor-clad and deadly, working like a unit of large ants to bring down their prey. But it wasn't the soldiers they had to worry about. A soldier hadn't stabbed Tornac. A magician, hidden in the shadows, had driven his dagger through the tough material of Tornac's leather jerkin. Tornac had kept fighting, face turning paler and paler. Then he had dropped. Murtagh had screamed, had hacked his way through the mob to get to him, but was stopped by Tornac's yell of, "Go on, boy! Go on, be free! Don't let my death be for nothing!"

So, with one last look behind him, one last anguished cry, Murtagh had vanished into the darkness, cursing himself, for being so easily ensnared by the king's honeyed words, the people of Cantos, for being so foolhardy as to hide rebels, Tornac, for dying, for _leaving _him. But most of all, he had cursed Galbatorix, for being so evil, so powerful, so _mad_.

Murtagh had vowed then and there to never, _never _care about someone again.

He had broken that promise when he had met Eragon. The boy had been so helpless, so innocent. But he had judged Murtagh for his own deeds, his deeds alone. It had been…refreshing.

And it had been erased by that split-second in the woods when Eragon had reached for Za'roc following Murtagh's revelation.

Now Murtagh was once more under the stain of his father's deeds.

Which brought him back to the present.

Waiting, once more, for his fate to be decided for him.

But Murtagh was used to it.

Murtagh waited.

**Hope that's better, guys. Review, please. And I have a Fourth book re-do roleplay over on my forum. Just go to the IC forums, and mine will be at the bottom. As always, review!**


	3. Flee

From the moment she had sprang forth from the womb, it had seemed that Arya's wyrd was set into stone.

Messengers had traveled throughout Du Weldenvarden, from chilly Osilon in the north, to balmy Ceris near the Hadarac, to trumpet the glad tidings of an heir, a princess, as dark as the night she was conceived in and as fair as the morning whose light she saw first. The birth of any elf called for a celebration, but this was not just any elf.

The mages and seers had seen strange visions, of both wonder and terror. What they meant could not be known, but one thing was sure: this was no ordinary child. Born under constellations that signified both death and life, joy and sorrow, love and hatred. Born as the last pallid rays of solstice moonlight feebly tried to compete with Aiedail's growing brilliance. Born on the day of the new year, foretold to be a year of fertility and joy.

The queen had wept with joy, naming her 'Arya', 'well-starred' in the old tongue, older even then the language they spoke now.

Aye, this was no common child…and everyone knew it, most of all her royal parents. She was the apple of their eyes, the little princess was…destined for both greatness and queenship. For her mother desired that her one daughter become queen, one day, and there was no question about it. What Islanzadí wanted, Islanzadí would have.

So it happened that the little girl was given wise, ancient tutors, sages and sorcerers, scientists and philosophers, weaponmasters and poets, all to teach her and train her in the way it was desired that she go. She was surrounded by children renowned for their virtue and beauty. No cry of pain escaped her lips, and no frown of displeasure marred her visage, as with the lesser races, as with the humans.

Humans.

Vile, nasty, profane things, with their strange flabby faces and their weaknesses. Vermin, reproducing like rodents, with filthy homes and habits. With gods and goddesses, which were as nonsensical as the idea of equality. As far below them, the wondrous first children, as a dung beetle to a dragon.

But Arya was an elf, a _princess_. She didn't have to trouble her pretty head with the foul creatures. Let them grub about in the dirt, perish in their own filth. She didn't have to care.

So Arya grew that way, growing fairer and fairer, and wiser and wiser. She was the toast of Ellesméra, the pride of her teachers, and the delight of her mother's eye.

All was well and perfect with the lovely princess.

And yet…

She was unhappy.

Arya was what one could call a radical. She had once shocked her mother by declaring the humans to be on the same level as elves. [Really, mother, they do not seem as brutish as I have been taught. They have their heroes and customs.]

She thought that her pampered life was extravagant and unnecessary. [Mother, would not I learn about my future subjects to a greater extent if I went out among them? Must I stay with the companions you have most sagaciously chosen for me?]

But most of all…Arya did not long to be queen. In fact, she hated the idea, detested it, _loathed _it. [I've been thinking, mother. Must I be a queen? I would rather be a warrior, a teacher, a singer of songs…anything but a ruler of many.]

Islanzadí had replied in the proper way to each of the statements.

[Come, come, daughter. Don't concern yourself with the human scum. You are far above their stinking masses, their snot-nosed serfs.]

[You are a _princess_,child. A princess does not mingle with the populace. She is as aloof and as lovely as a snow-covered mountain.]

[You carry the blood of queens and kings, Arya. A queen does not shirk her duty. Are you shirking your duty?]

So Arya did not concern herself with the scum, did not mingle with the populace, did not shirk her duty. Arya did all her mother asked of her…

Until the humans…the Varden…called, begged, pleaded for an ambassador. Arya listened in fascination, then with growing enthusiasm.

She would help the Varden! She would help bring about the casting down of the mad king! She would serve her people, show the humans that elves weren't strange and alien, that they could love and hate as well.

Then her mother found out.

[Come, Arya. You do not truly mean to join this sect- the Garden was it?-]

[The Varden, mother. And it isn't a sect; it's a rebel faction dedicated to casting down the mad king and restoring peace to the land.]

[Varden, Garden, what difference does it make? It's just a group founded by humans, the foul, vile creatures-]

[They aren't foul or vile! They're living beings, just like you and I. And I want to join them.]

[I thought we had taught you better than that. I shall have to speak to your teachers about this. And you aren't joining this little cult.]

[But mother-]

[No, Arya. I forbid you to join the Varden. This conversation is over; you are dismissed.]

Arya had ran from the queen's presence, white and trembling with rage. How dare she treat her this way! She was not a child, to be dismissed like this was another whim! She was an adult, she could make her own decisions…

That night, Arya had the yawё tattooed upon her shoulder.

The next morning dawned bright and fair. She went to say farewell to her mother.

[I thought I forbade you to do such a thing, Arya.]

[You did, mother, I just-]

[I am your mother and queen. You are to have that symbol removed from your shoulder, then I may find it in my heart to forgive you-]

[No, mother.]

[What?]

[I said no, mother. This was my decision, and I will never submit.]

Her mother had paled. Arya had slowly backed away, cowed by the look in the queen's eyes.

[Begone, then, from my presence.]

[Mother, I-]

[You shall no longer come before me. You are as one dead to me…your name shall be struck from the records of the Line, and I shall no longer acknowledge you.]

[But-]

[Go, rebel, disobedient subject, traitor to your race.]

[Mother, I-]

[Who is it you call mother? I see naught but a cursed elf.]

Arya had stood, trembling, stripped of everything she held dear, bereft of a mother's love. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she reached toward her mother, only to be blocked by crossed swords…

Arya fled.


End file.
